


Trip to Jupiter

by cypheragent



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Drabble Collection, M/M, Otasune Week 2020, Pining, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:42:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25661551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cypheragent/pseuds/cypheragent
Summary: Over the course of nine years, love blooms on the battlefield.
Relationships: Otacon/Solid Snake
Comments: 24
Kudos: 40





	1. Sunlight, the Caribou and You

Hal _tried_ holding on without wrapping his arms around Dave’s waist, but it simply wasn’t doable at this speed. If the hardened soldier minds, he hasn’t said a word, and if his expression betrays this impression Hal can’t exactly tell while facing his back.

Pink and gold marble the sky as nightfall approaches, the retreating sunlight casting sparkles across the vast expanse of ice they traverse; it’s like a scene plucked straight from shoujo manga. Caribou pace comfortably atop the frozen lake, acclimated to the wintry landscape they call home. Perhaps they’re somewhat out of place in an otherwise romantic view, but Hal thinks they’re rather cute.

Hal realizes that, always cooped up, he’s shielded himself from this. He’s unsure why anymore. The world had seemed frightening, but so much changed in merely twenty-four hours. He understands real terror now. He’d never heard an actual gunshot, seen severe injuries—corpses—or witnessed cruelty men on the battlefield enact without second thought. The Genome Army, FOXHOUND’s members… Wolf, and Snake carried out orders prepared to die. Upon learning REX’s true nature, Hal couldn’t have sat by and just followed commands. Instead, he’d aided Snake’s mission to sabotage his own creation.

The militaristic mode of operation is familiar to Snake, but even he’d seemed shaken by that ninja and Meryl’s deaths. Hal wonders how much brutality it takes to numb yourself, how much until it affects you anew. Hal feels weaker at the thought. He’s hazy on what exactly breaks the dam—his own trauma, uselessness, or empathy with Snake’s losses—but he finds himself leaning against Dave and bawling his eyes out. His misery fuels further misery as he imagines what an additional burden this is on Dave, some crybaby smearing tears and snot on him.

Dave stops the snowmobile. Hal doesn’t pause his sobbing. He’s never had a good handle on his emotions, especially not physical responses triggered by them.

Dave turns and says softly, almost gently, “Hey.” Hal isn’t quite sure what kind of response he was expecting—frankly, he’d been too caught up in himself to speculate—but this certainly wasn’t it. In that same tone, somehow both comforting Hal and augmenting his guilt, he asks, “What’s the matter?”

Hal inhales and exhales hard, rhythmically, leveling his breathing enough to reply. Unable to summarize everything, his own understanding limited, he settles on the most overwhelming emotion, the one permeating every facet of his current state: “I’m so pathetic.”

“Hal, you’re a noncombatant. You were entirely unprepared for what happened today, let alone in such a short span of time. You did fine.”

Hal wipes at his face. “I don’t… I’m sorry, I don’t know where this came from.”

“Probably the day’s stress catching up with you. Totally normal response.” Dave pats his shoulder. “Stay with me for awhile to recover. You’ll like the cabin.”

Hal sniffles, a touch calmer. His biggest inconvenience now is the lump in his throat, an improvement over hyperventilation and uncontrollable weeping. He must have a lot to learn about Dave, because his responses keep surprising him. Of course, in hindsight, maybe he should have expected that about a man he’s only recently met. “Cabin?”

“Yeah.” Snake shuffles back into his earlier position, obscuring his expression again. “I’ve lived here a long time… but Alaska has never looked more beautiful. The sky, the sea, the caribou… and most of all… you.”

Hal’s cheeks warm up, a sensation he’d welcome in this weather under literally _any_ other circumstances. “H-huh?”

Before Hal can splutter a word in edgewise, the snowmobile zooms ahead, jerking him forward and forcing his arms around Dave once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is my contribution to Otasune Week 2020, a fandom event I'm running with my friend Andi @squirralicious! Chapter 1 corresponds with the "Nature" prompt, which I honestly might have strayed from a bit, but hopefully still captured well enough.


	2. Winter Blossom

Hal rubs up and down his crisscrossed arms vigorously. While his parka provides decent insulation, the long-sleeved tee underneath is insufficient. “It’s so… c-c-cold…”

This small town—the closest civilization to Dave’s cabin—resembles those perfect little Christmas villages, the only part of that obnoxious holiday he’s ever enjoyed. As the sun rises, locals commence bustling about. These are not his people, Hal decides; he’s rarely awake for these skies, when light barely crests over a dark horizon. He’s only up at this hour today because Dave dragged him out.

A tiny bell rings as Dave opens the door to a dingy building. The inside houses seemingly everything a shop could: clothes, furniture, home goods, and so on and so forth, in varying condition. A thrift store, Hal guesses. He’s never stepped foot in a place like this before, truthfully, having been financially secure his whole life. The prospect that it’s all Dave can afford drudges up memory of some PSA on privilege he sat through during college.

Dave lays a hand on Hal’s back and guides him to the men’s clothing section. Unused to such forwardness (or touch in general, really), Hal blushes.

“Here,” Dave says as Hal scans thick sweaters enveloping the entire rack. Hal had packed his every article of thicker clothes, but he owns nothing quite heavy-duty enough for Alaskan winter. “We’ll see if they even have anything that works for you. You’re so damn skinny.”

Dave rifles through sweaters marked as small, picks four and holds them against Hal’s upper half. Squinting, he mumbles, “I think only these’ll fit.”

“O-oh… uh, thanks.” They’re two cable knits—one oatmeal, the other navy—a plain olive, and a white Fair Isle with various red and navy details. Hal selects another, mustard and baggy, and supplies, “I don’t mind oversized.”

Dave shrugs. “Suit yourself. Do you need to look around, or are we done?”

Hal glances the store over, gaze resting on a marble-bodied lamp, vaguely dirty porcelain covered in vintage floral designs, teddy bears a child once loved dearly and that now desperately call for baths. Not a single necessity in sight. Were he alone, he honestly might search the toy aisle after _Transformers_ , but with Dave here he’d feel embarrassed, like he’s wasting the hardened veteran’s time. “No, I’m fine.”

“All right.” 

Dave plucks the hangers back and turns to make his way toward the checkout. This alarms Hal, who realizes his friend may intend to pay for the items himself. Following along, he asks, “Hey, you aren’t planning on buying those, right? I have plenty of money.”

“It’s okay. You’re my guest.”

 _Haven’t you done enough for me?_ he thinks, almost vocalizes, before deciding it could sound rude. Sure, this costs almost nothing to Hal, but it’s the thought that counts and he should be grateful, right? “…Thank you.”

Dave and the cashier conduct the purchase silently, but when the former nods and the latter tips his hat—a navy ball cap with a sports team name Hal doesn’t recognize embroidered on the front panel—Hal assumes a level of familiarity must exist between them. He wonders if Dave knows everyone in this sleepy town. The employee is bearded and elderly, hair white, and appears friendly albeit tired. Donning red, blue and green tartan flannel, brown suspenders and a gray scarf, he’s roughly how Hal imagined the locals when Dave proposed they drop by.

As they exit, setting off that _ding_ again. “You can accept other people’s kindness, you know. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

Hal stops dead in his tracks. “H-huh?”

“You seem afraid. Don’t be. If you didn’t deserve it, nobody would offer.”

As snow swirls around Dave, Hal recalls a similar scene after Wolf’s death at Shadow Moses. He’d experienced a twinge of awe then, observing Snake from a distance, alarmed by inexplicable desire to truly understand this man. Something warm blooms in his chest now, growing with each heartbeat, spreading its branches throughout his body. Desire to cultivate it, solve the puzzle this person presents, overwhelms him. For someone such as himself, that’s a terrifying sign, but just this once he allows the affection budding inside and spreading a beaming smile across his face.

“Thank you.” Wiping at the hint of moisture gathering in his eyes, he sniffles. “Really, thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one's a day late! Unfortunately, that may end up becoming a trend, but I'll do my best. This was written for the prompt "Blooming," with the intention of capturing a little moment that furthers the relationship.


	3. Joined Hands

“Hey, hey, hey! Didn’t I tell you to rest? Doctor’s orders!”

“You’re not _that_ kind of doctor.”

“Am now. Who’d look after your sorry ass otherwise?”

Snake sighs and rotates his arm, examining the bandages wrapped around it. Otacon’s squeamishness had hindered the application process somewhat, but Snake observed with pride as he’d ultimately managed. The cloth remains a vibrant shade of red where his injury lies underneath, but he’s fairly certain the bleeding has ceased by now. All things considered—Otacon’s anxiety, inexperience, and admittedly, Snake’s finnicky instruction—it turned out a decent medical job.

“Listen, Otacon, I’m feeling a lot better already. Just let me walk around a bit.”

“No, no, no. I’m sure you are doing well, but you need to recharge as much as possible. Who’s to say when our next mission might be? Come on.” Otacon takes his hand in an unwittingly unfair gesture, triggering an oxytocin shot in Snake’s brain, and gently guides him back into the bedroom. “If you’re bored, read one of those… Jack London books for the billionth time or something.”

“I’m stir crazy, not bored.” Nonetheless, he lays down on their lumpy mattress. “There’s a difference. I think you just want to play mother hen.”

“I’m being responsible,” he huffs. “Will this help?” Seating himself beside Snake, he opens the laptop previously nestled under his arm. “I have a bit more work to do, but after that we could watch anime?”

Otacon’s close proximity might kill him. His fingers fumble around on the beside table in search of his Lucky Strikes and lighter. “Sounds good.”

He’s unsure exactly how this started. His Otacon troubles. Somewhere along the road, between states and safe houses and lack of personal space, Snake had become intensely fond of his companion. It’s unlike anything he’s experienced before—different from Frank, Holly, Meryl—and it unsettles him.

It started small, as most worrisome emotions do. Hal’s curls drape flatteringly over his forehead. Freckles dapple his skin, so light you’ll only notice by looking hard, really looking at _him_. His tongue pokes out imperceptibly whenever he’s focused, engrossed in technological tasks Snake can’t understand. One day the pieces simply fell into place, the epiphany that he notices these minor details for a reason.

“Smoking here? Honestly…” Otacon fans at the air, nose scrunched up.

Snake shrugs, popping a cigarette between his lips and inhaling. “You can leave,” he responds easily, against his true wishes.

Otacon doesn’t reply for awhile, presumably distracted by happenings on his computer screen. Snake imagines to the best of his ability that they’re enjoying a far less awkward silence together, a comfortable one in which they’d sit much nearer, maybe even touching. He sneaks a glance or two at Otacon, who seemingly never notices; if he ever glimpses over himself, Snake’s missed it in turn.

“I’m serious, you know.”

“Pardon?” Snake asks, disoriented by the abrupt vocalization.

Lips pursed, Otacon laces his fingers together, twiddling as though tinkering with imaginary machinery. Dave watches with fascination. “You’re always protecting me. Now _you’re_ hurt. I guess… the least I can do is take care of you.” His voice trembles slightly. Snake fears deeply that his friend is about to cry and he’s the cause. “Won’t you allow me that, if nothing else? It’s not like I have anything else to offer…”

This insecurity combined with genuine care probably serve as the guiding principles of Otacon’s entire decision-making process. That Snake could have foreseen such a response doesn’t diminish how it tugs at his heartstrings. He wants to reach out, caress his shoulder, or worse yet, hold him. He refrains, digging into the sheets. “I’m sorry. I should’ve realized you felt that way. Otacon, you already contribute plenty in your own way. Don’t sell yourself short.”

“Mm.” While perhaps not wholly convinced, Otacon loosens up a little. “Thanks Snake.”

“Furthermore… if I have no choice but to unwind, you should too.” Corner of his lips upturned, Snake leans in. “C’mon, I know you’d rather watch anime.” Gazed dropped to Otacon’s forlorn hand, he decides _fuck it_ and places his own atop it. Otacon briefly stiffens before relaxing again, chuckling.

“Okay, okay… you win. That sounds nice.” Snake can hardly believe his luck when Otacon, normally so mousy, fearful of physical contact, snuggles up next to him. “ _This_ is nice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, the last upload was a bit late, but this one is obviously... very late. I apologize. All I can really say is that I've been experiencing some pretty bad burnout. I'm still working hard and will release the rest of these pieces in as timely a manner as possible without draining myself or sacrificing my standards. 
> 
> Anyway, this serves to fill the third prompt, "Protection." It's Otacon's turn to protect Snake in the little ways he can!


	4. Sunrise

A familiar ringing in his ear rouses Otacon. It’s not tinnitus—more like a phone call blaring in his head—amidst wee hours of the night no less. Uttering a quiet groan, he glances over at his companion. Snake appears a featureless blur thanks to his poor night vision, but Otacon discerns his body rising and falling gently, a telltale sign that he’s fast asleep.

Otacon answers the Codec and attempts, unsure whether he’s coherent, “Who’s this…?”

“Raiden. I’m at your place.” He’s resumed smoking. Otacon is confident from the rasp. “Don’t tell Snake.”

“Huh…?” Otacon rubs at his eyes. Tiredness clouding his judgment, he almost doesn’t question Raiden’s strange request. It’s only Raiden, after all. Nevertheless, he casts Snake’s resting figure another glimpse and envisions the gun under his pillow. Muffled by a yawn, he asks, “Why shouldn’t I bring Snake?”

“He’ll be pissed. You’ll understand in a moment. Just… come on,” he snaps.

“Okay, okay.” He feels around for his glasses on the nightstand by their bed. “You military guys are so pushy...”

Rendered wobbly by sleepiness and blind by darkness, Otacon narrowly avoids any collisions during his trip to the front room. Unlocking the frankly excessive amount of bolts Snake attaches to the door and swinging it open reveals Raiden cradling a bundle, illuminated by a moth-swarmed porchlight that flickers intermittently. A far cry from the pretty boy he remembers from Big Shell, this disheveled Raiden reeks of alcohol.

Raiden shoves the mysterious object forward. “Take it.”

Otacon steps back, hands raised as though prepared to accept, but ends up flailing instead. “Um… what is—” He cuts himself off when Raiden’s peculiar offering _moves_ , squirms, establishing aliveness. A gasp escapes Otacon’s throat as he peers closer and outstretches tentative fingers. He pulls back a swatch of blanket, uncovering a tiny palm that clenches and unclenches, a silent complaint against exposure to the cold air.

“Olga’s?” Otacon aims his gaze back at Raiden. _How did you locate him? Why didn’t you stay put like Snake instructed? Why have you brought him here?_ Overwhelmed, he simply states, “I… don’t understand.”

“You were taking too damn long. Got tired of waiting. I didn’t work alone. _They’ll_ be after her. I know she’ll be safe with you two. Does that explain everything?”

Otacon blinks. _Oh, it’s a girl._ “Uh… yeah, that’s good enough, I guess.” He sighs and redirects his attention to her once more. He’s surprised she hasn’t so much as peeped. “Snake _really_ won’t be happy about this. Like, on multiple lev—”

“Who’s there?” Snake barks, a disembodied vocalization in the blackness. Pivoting his head toward the approximate source, Otacon lifts his arms, nearly positive a gun is trained on him.

“Snake, it’s Rai—” Before his heart can pass a single beat, the baby’s in his arms. Snake rushes to Otacon’s side, but Raiden has already vanished. He steps outside, looks every which way. An uncomfortable pause elapses before he shuts the door, scowling. Otacon swallows; while thoroughly acquainted with Snake’s various moods, he’s rarely found himself the target of his anger.

“Never,” Snake says, eerily calm, “do that again. What were you thinking?”

Otacon avoids his hard stare, opting to examine his own shuffling feet. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “It was just Raiden, so I—”

“It could’ve been a trap! You should’ve woken me!”

“…Um, he said not to.”

“Are you serious? Otacon, I’m astonished it _wasn’t_ a trap. What’s this about, anyway?” The baby fidgets, immediately attracting Snake’s notice. Despite his glower, Otacon discerns an inkling of hope as he uncovers her with cautious digits and breathes, “Is this…?”

Snake flicks the lamp on. It emanates a faint glow, but the baby paws her face regardless; even considering this disturbance, she remains silent. Otacon’s experience with infants is fairly limited, but he’s still shocked and more than a little concerned by her noiselessness.

“Something’s wrong. He’s too small.”

Otacon gently bounces her in his arms. “It’s actually a girl, but… uh, how big should she be? Babies are tiny, right?” He peeks down at her. “Aw, she’s cute…”

“Olga was pregnant when we first encountered her in 2007, meaning however far along she might’ve been then—and exactly when she gave birth—the baby’s at least a year old. That,” he affirms, motioning, “isn’t a healthy one-year-old.”

“Oh…” Snake plucks his jacket off the coat rack as Otacon tries rocking her next. Predictably, this elicits no reaction. “Um, where are you going?”

“Where else? To buy her food. Poor kid’s probably starving.”

Before Snake can turn the handle he’s gripped, Otacon pipes up, “You’re mad, aren’t you?”

Otacon’s interjection freezes him. “Yes, but…” He grunts, crow’s feet visible, as the exact phrasing eludes him. “Not because she’s here. And I’ll get over your stupid mistake.” He watches her distantly, like he’s not truly seeing, not truly present. So quietly Otacon suspects it unintentional, Snake says, “I wonder what they did to her.”

Otacon realizes that they mirror each other, how Snake must be grappling with his own past as he observes her, both under Patriots control at such young ages. A tiny fist emerges from the swaddle and waves around blindly, searching. Snake approaches and extends a hesitant hand; she finds and clutches his thumb tightly, the most conviction she’s mustered since her arrival. He sighs.

“I better head out. You hold down the fort, okay? You know how to use a gun if necessary, but I doubt anything will happen. I’ll keep in touch.” He slips on his jacket, a tan leather bomber cracking at the sleeves.

“Dave?”

Snake halts about halfway through the exit. “Yes?”

“It’ll be okay. She… _she’ll_ be okay. There’s no need to worry.” What is he really trying to convey? “You… you’re a good person, Dave.”

“…Yeah.” Dave manages a smile. “Thank you, Hal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was actually the first piece I started... and a major reason I've ended up so behind, as it just did not want to work with me. The prompt was "Nature." Thanks for sticking around!


End file.
